The Assassin's Blade Page 3

  Her lip curled. “The destruction of my own world?”

  He looked stunned for several moments. He sat back, his surprise giving way after a few moments to a frown of inner contemplation. “So—this is a personal vendetta?” he said as he rose and began to pace.

  “Trained assassins do not carry out personal vendettas,” she said coolly.

  His brows rose. “But that is precisely what this is,” he contradicted.

  “I was chosen.”

  “How fortunate for you that your mission coincided so nicely with your personal prejudice.”

  Her lips tightened, but she saw no reason to continue to deny it. “Yes.”

  He paced to the window and stood there for several moments. “I don’t suppose it carries any weight with you at all that the tale lacks any logic?”

  Surprised, Faylyn twisted her head to look at him. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  He glanced at her before returning his attention to the view beyond the window. “My power and wealth are derived from the people of the worlds I rule. To destroy is to lose. To destroy a whole world, is to lose immeasurably.”

  Faylyn frowned up at the ceiling. “It was as nothing.”

  “To you?”

  “To you!”

  “You know me so well, then?”

  “I do not know you at all!”

  “Then how can you judge what is of value to me and what is not?” he asked tightly.

  “Obviously, my people were of no consequence to you.”

  She could feel his gaze upon her, angry, thoughtful.

  “I behaved toward you as an enemy?” he said softly.

  Strangely, the words sent a wave of regret through her. She swallowed against an unfathomable tightness in her throat but said nothing.

  He began to pace again. “So, knowing you had a personal vendetta, because they had planted it there, they still sent you to carry out the mission. Does that not strike you as—uncharacteristic of the Kilrathi?”

  Faylyn felt a jolt go through her at his words, and, for the first time, she questioned her assignment. It was truly uncharacteristic of the Kilrathi. In all the years of training, it had been drummed into her, as it had all the assassins, that complete objectivity was absolutely essential to an assassin’s mission. Emotion in any form would only distract, inhibit, promote unsound judgment. Why, then, had she been sent? They were certainly not unaware of her knowledge, or her sentiments. It had been one of her Kilrathi teachers who had told her, upon her arrival at the citadel, that she was the sole survivor of the ruling family of Kailan and that it was her duty to one day seek retribution for the deaths of her family and the people of Kailan. “I … don’t know,” she said finally.

  Apparently coming to a decision, Talor returned to his position on the bed beside her. “We will … explore your memory.”

  Faylyn swallowed with some difficulty as he fished a fire device from the pocket of his breeches and leaned forward to light the candle on the tray. She sought her inner peace, tried to blank her mind to the images battering at her memory, but the questions that bred fear slithered through her mind like dark serpents.

  Would he use those devices of torture she was all too familiar with?

  Would he use the devices which had inconceivable uses?

  Why light the candle?

  The room was dim—only two lamps within the cavernous space—but surely yielding enough light that a single candle could add little by way of illumination?

  Did he intend to use the candle itself? Surely he must know the candle could cause little pain.

  She realized that he was studying her thoughtfully and wondered if she had given any of her anxieties away in her expression.

  His gaze wandered from her face, down along her throat and lingered on the pinkish blue nipples that peaked her breasts. Without glancing at her face again, he turned to the tray, studied it a long moment, and picked up the small clamps. They were connected by a tiny chain.

  Faylyn stared pointedly at the ceiling as he returned his attention to her, although, in her peripheral vision, she could see that he was studying the clamps he held. After a moment, she felt his gaze once more.

  “Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer to simply tell me what you know?”

  Faylyn could tell nothing by the tone of his voice. It was carefully neutral. She did not respond.

  He sighed deeply. “This is bound to be … difficult … for both of us.”

  For her, probably, she thought cynically, but she couldn’t imagine it would be difficult for him … not if he chose to do it himself.

  After a moment, he laid the clamps on her stomach. Turning, he picked up the candle. Holding it about a foot above her chest, he tilted it slightly. Despite her determination not to allow him to see her turmoil, Faylyn tensed, watching as the melted wax dripped from the candle onto her breasts. To her surprise and confusion the wax was barely warm when it touched her skin.

  She flicked a glance at him before she focused on the ceiling once more, but she could not refrain from flinching as she felt his hand touch her bare skin, felt his fingers gliding over the sensitive flesh of her breasts, massaging the cooling wax into the skin. Her nipples tightened and stood erect.

  She heard a dull thud as he set the candle on the tray once more. She looked down as he picked up the clamps and leaned toward her, sucking in a breath as he very carefully pinched one erect nipple with the first clamp, and then the other.

  A jolt traveled through the clamp, into her nipples and down through her belly, puddling with moist warmth in her sex. Faylyn swallowed with some difficulty, trying to decide if it was merely the clamps, or if the tiny jolts of pleasure were caused by an electrical current. When he leaned over her and reached down to adjust a tiny button on the side of one clamp, she was no longer in any doubt. The adjustment caused a slight, but very noticeable, intensification of the current. It throbbed through the clamps in a rhythmic wave, each tiny jolt sending a new wave of sensation through her.

  Goose bumps rose on her flesh.

  He studied the raised flesh and was apparently satisfied. He reached for the candle again.

  Faylyn looked directly at him. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for answers.”

  It seemed a strange way to go about it and for the first time, Faylyn began to wonder what he had in mind … exactly.

  He tipped the candle, blazing a trail between her breasts and down along her belly, following the hot wax with his fingers, rubbing it into her skin.

  Pleasurable sensation intensified.

  “Did you know pleasure is akin to pain?” he murmured without looking up at her, as if he’d read her mind.

  Faylyn moistened her lips, surprised to find that her lips and mouth had gone dry until she realized she’d begun to suck in little gasps of breath each time the current jolted through her nipples. A strange lethargy had descended upon her. The muscles of her body felt heavy and limp. Her head swam. She found she was having difficulty focusing on anything other than the jolts of pleasure, which seemed to be building, growing momentarily stronger until pleasure seemed to dominate her mind. “I don’t think I understand.”

  He didn’t glance at her. “Sensation. The nerve endings of the body basically only register the sensation. The brain interprets. A feather light touch in an area that’s deeply sensitive creates a tickle, or an itch. A little more pressure, in those same, ultra sensitive areas, the tickle can become pleasure, the itch pain.”

  He’d reached her lower belly. It took every ounce of training to prevent herself from jerking reflexively as he traced a pattern with hot wax and finger tips along her pelvic bones, the hollow of her belly, the soft flesh that cupped her sex.

  He set the wax candle down again, turned to study her a long moment, then leaned over her, looking deeply into her half closed eyes. “An experienced man knows all those sensitive areas on a woman’s body that bring her pleasure. But, of course, we are not all the same.” He to
uched the tip of one nipple, running his finger in a circular motion that made Faylyn’s belly tighten. “For many women, the breasts are one of the most sensitive areas to pleasurable sensation. Others might find this only mildly pleasant. What about you, assassin?”

  Faylyn said nothing. She wasn’t certain she could speak if she’d wanted to.

  “No? Shall I turn it up a notch?”

  Faylyn swallowed with some difficulty, wondering whether she wanted him to or not. Pleasure beckoned her. Like a clever enemy, it enticed her to yield her will and give herself up to the enveloping intoxication.

  He adjusted the clamps once more.

  The jolts came harder and more quickly. Faylyn felt a wash of hot wetness flood into her lower body. She clamped her jaws tightly, trying to ignore the sensation, feeling her mind cloud.

  It occurred to her that this was much like the euphoria drugs induced; an inner focus, disorientation, dizziness … and still she found it nearly impossible to focus her mind elsewhere and ignore it.

  He was right. Pleasure was akin to pain. In the same way pain deprived one of will and logic, so too did pleasure—except the pleasure beckoned one to yield completely to it while pain invoked the desire to flee it.

  His eyes darkened as he studied her. Even in her current state, she could see that he was not unmoved, that he was struggling against his own desires.

  After a moment he shifted on the bed, sliding his hand along her body until he reached her femininity. With his fingers, he parted the flesh at the apex of her thighs, exposing the delicate, sensitive, inner flesh. “This, of course, is the primary pleasure center,” he murmured, rubbing a fingertip over a tiny nub of flesh he’d exposed in a way that made Faylyn gasp.

  She jerked, trying, reflexively, to draw her knees up, so caught up in sensation that she’d forgotten her ankles had been bound and secured to the foot of the bed. She tried to squeeze her legs more tightly together to protect herself, but she could not, nor cross her legs to ward off his intrusive touch.

  He leaned toward her. “I could tease you for hours upon hours and give you no surcease, and the unceasing pleasure would become a torture you cannot imagine. Tell me and I will give you release.”

  “I do not want you to give me … anything,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Your body tells me you lie.” He slipped his finger further, pressing into the opening of her sex. “You are wet … for me. Your body craves my touch. Tell me and I will show you pleasure you have never known.”

  Faylyn twisted her head away. “I cannot.”

  “Cannot? Or will not?”

  Faylyn ignored him.

  A faint smile curled his lips. “I would have been deeply regretful if you had succumbed so quickly,” he whispered. He turned away and studied the tray once more. Finally, to Faylyn’s mixed relief and disappointment, he removed the clamps and set them on the tray once more. Picking up a bottle of clear liquid, he poured some in the palm of one hand, rubbed his hands together and then turned to her. Reaching up, he began to smooth the liquid over her arms, massaging them, paying particular attention to the pulse point of her wrists and the tender bend at her elbows.

  It was some sort of oil, Faylyn realized, and almost immediately discovered that the oils became warm on her skin, heating the flesh, making it more sensitive to his touch. After a moment, he reached for the bottle once more, poured more into his palm and moved lower, massaging the oils over her throat and neck, then moving lower still and massaging her breasts. Her nipples tightened almost painfully at his touch, so sensitized by now she could not prevent herself from trying to jerk away from his touch.

  His eyes narrowed. Leaning forward, he placed his mouth over one nipple, nudged it with his tongue.

  Faylyn gasped, then groaned aloud as his mouth closed over the nipple and sucked. She wanted him to stop, desperately wanted him never to stop. She was writhing in the agony of ecstasy, moaning as if in pain long before he finally lifted his tortuous mouth from her flesh.

  He stared at her a long moment, his face a mask of careful control. His hand shook slightly as he lifted it and traced the curve of her lips. He leaned forward until his own mouth was little more than a hair’s breadth from hers but stilled. After a long moment, he leaned away, drew a shaky breath.

  He looked away.

  She thought for several moments that he would rise and leave her. Instead, the mask of control descended once more and he reached again for the oils and continued the massage he’d begun, moving slowly down her body, rubbing the oil into her torso and belly until he reached her thighs.

  He stared thoughtfully at her bound legs for several moments. “This presents a difficulty,” he murmured.

  Faylyn was far too deeply immersed in the euphoria of ecstasy for the comment to make any sense to her. Even when he rose and moved to the foot of the bed to loosen the cord she could think of nothing but deprivation of his touch … and still she was disappointed when he did no more than loosen the tight binding enough so that she could pull her legs up in a half curled position. Her ankles were still bound, but she could not seem to fathom why that disturbed her.

  Apparently satisfied, he knelt on the bed, pushed her thighs apart and massaged them, slowly, beginning at her knees and working his way upwards. As his hands began to kneed the flesh of her upper thighs, Faylyn groaned with a mixture of pleasure and desperate need.

  He fell still, his face a mask of barely leashed desire as he studied her. He could not seem to tear his gaze from her femininity. After a moment, he stripped his shirt away jerkily, tossed it aside and reached for the opening of his breeches even as he came down on top of her, wedging his hips between her parted thighs, fumbling … for something.

  If she had been more lucid, Faylyn might have wondered why she found his weight upon her so welcome. She was far from rational, however. She knew, somehow, that he would end the torture, bring her surcease and she wanted it, desperately.

  “I lose,” he murmured raggedly, impaling her with something hard and throbbing.

  Faylyn gasped as she felt the intrusion, her eyes opening wide in surprise as discomfort warred with pleasure.

  Braced on his arms, Talor looked down at her, his expression a mixture of emotions; triumph, desire— chagrin.

  He had, she realized, thrust his male member inside of her. The realization brought a flood of moisture that soothed her discomfort.

  He closed his eyes, held himself stiffly for a moment and then, as if he could control himself no longer, thrust deeply inside her.

  Faylyn cried out with a mingling of pain, surprise, and deep pleasure.

  She surged against her bindings as he began to thrust and retreat from her passage rhythmically, trying, instinctively to match his thrusts.

  His mouth descended over hers, his tongue plunging inside to explore the sensitive inner flesh of her mouth even as his cock surged inside her feminine cavity to lay claim. A sort of mindless madness descended upon her as her body responded to his complete possession. The pleasurable tension of before quickly ascended to a point where it could no longer be contained. It exploded into sharp shards of pleasure that seemed to move through her like a crashing wave, sending tingles of ecstasy all through her body. She wrenched her mouth from his as it crashed over her, unable to contain the scream that rushed forth.

  She felt him shudder, felt his cock pulse against the muscles of her sex as he, too, found release.

  He went limp.

  Dazedly, Faylyn was aware of it, but far too weak with release herself to consider the possibilities. In truth, there was none. She was in no condition to take advantage of his state, too languorous and euphoric herself to give it more than a passing thought.

  Many moments passed. Finally, he rolled off of her and settled on his side beside her, propping his head in one hand.

  “I would give all that I have had it been different between us,” he murmured finally.

  Startled, Faylyn glanced at him questioningly. �
��Why would you say such a thing?” she said curiously.

  “Because it is true. Because I knew almost from the very moment that I saw you that I could love you … and even Emperors desire to love and be loved.”

  Faylyn looked away. “I am an assassin … sent to slay you. You could feel nothing but hate. I do not blame you for wishing to destroy me.”

  He touched her cheek, forcing her to look at him. “I would feel no hate for a sword or pistol … for no weapon used against me. Neither would I seek to destroy so finely crafted an instrument of death. It is the person who wields the weapon who is my enemy.”

  Faylyn swallowed with some difficulty and twisted away. “Do not speak it! It matters not now! I … would prefer your hate.”

  “Would you? And yet I have given you pleasure as you gave to me. Could you feel nothing more than hatred and take such pleasure?”

  “I do not hate you.”

  He rose from the bed and began to dress himself. “You indicated otherwise,” he said coolly.

  Faylyn felt a welling of distress at the loss of the considerate lover, replaced now by the, justifiably, cool monarch. “Yes. I welcomed the opportunity to avenge the death of my family … of my people.”

  “And you are certain, still, that it is I who deserves your wrath?”

  Faylyn frowned, but before she could respond a commotion in the corridor outside drew their attention.

  Without a word, Talor moved to the door and opened it.

  Faylyn could see nothing more than a glimpse of the guard who had entered the room earlier, nor could she make out more than a word or two here and there … not enough to understand what the source of the commotion had been.

  After a moment, Talor closed the door once more and moved back to the bed. He eyed her speculatively for several moments.

  “As I had hoped—someone has come to determine your success, or in this case, your failure in your mission. It occurs to me that we are presented with a unique opportunity here.”